The Greater Good

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On Saturday nights my wife Liz likes to go to Abercrombies, a bar a few miles from our home. Abercrombies has a small, if regular, crowd and a large space off to one side where people could dance, though few did. My wife is one.

Liz is not overweight but she is big-boned and has a thickish, if hour-glass shaped body. She’s in her forties. At Abercrombies she likes to wear one of her ultra mini-dresses–attire that clings to her appealing shape and whose hemline stops just below the point, the nadir, of her panties. Her thong, actually. When we first arrive and she slides onto one of the stools at a high-table off the bar Liz has to simultaneously tug at the high hem and cross her thick, sumptuous bare thighs. Otherwise some of the men at the bar will get a glimpse of her underwear, such as it is.

The regulars know her and come over to give her a hug. They ignore me. It’s as if I’m not even there. Someone feeds the jukebox and men–regulars–ask Liz to dance with them. They slow-dance–their bodies pressed together. I know that the men get erections, while dancing with my wife, their hard-ons pressed against Liz’s flat belly. I know this because I get an erection too, watching them. The men, sometimes as many as a half-dozen, take turns with her, dancing in the vacant space in that otherwise empty portion of Abercrombies. As they dance the guys whisper to her.

“When are you going to let me fuck you?”

“Why don’t you dump that limp-dick husband of yours and go home with me?”

“Will you suck my cock? We can go out to my car.”

Et cetera, et cetera.

I know what they’re saying to her and this serves to turn me on even further. After two or three hours of drinking and dancing (with everybody but me) Liz yawns and says, “Let’s go. I’m bored.” And we leave. We leave behind, with a series of hugs around the bar, a half-dozen very frustrated men.

On the drive home I always ask Liz, “When are you going to take one of these guys home?”

She always laughs. “With you there?”

“In the house but not in the bedroom.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Liz says coyly.

I don’t reply. I’m a wannabe cuckold, a willing one. The facts speak for themselves.

“Maybe if they paid…,” Liz threw out one Saturday night.

“Paid?”

“Why not? I get offers all the time. Fifty bucks for this, fifty bucks for that.”

“For what?” my hard-on reviving.

“What do you think?”

“That’s not a lot.”

“For a fuck it’s not. But for a blowjob?”

“What would you charge for a fuck?” (I’m about to cum in my pants.)

“A hundred,” Liz replied without a second thought.

“Those guys at Abercrombies…they’d pay that?”

“They run up fifty dollar bar tabs. They’d pay twice that to fuck me. eryaman eve gelen escort Spend a couple of hours in bed with me? Are you kidding?”

I swallowed. Said, “You should tell ’em then. While you’re…dancing.”

“I could. I might.”

We rode in silence for a moment. Finally I said, “I could make myself scarce. Stay in the guest bedroom.”

Liz looked over at me, smiling. “You sleep there most nights anyway.”

“I know,” I conceded. I’m a quick-cummer. I haven’t satisfied my wife in years, if ever. When I sleep in the guest bedroom I’m free to fantasize about Liz with other men while I masturbate. Besides, I sleep better when I’m alone. Liz went on:

“So I invite a guy over. You run off to the guest bedroom. I take him upstairs and fuck him. He pays me a hundred dollars for the privilege.”

I sat there nodding in the darkness of the car. I’d pulled off into an abandoned gas station, the engine still running. It was as if I didn’t want this conversation to end. It was all I could do to keep from ejaculating in my panties.

The panties had originally been Liz’s idea. When we stopped having sex, or trying to, she’d started in with the names: “Pussy.” “Dickless Wonder.” And now “Pantywaist.” She’d laid out a pair for me one night, and informed me that that’s what pussy husbands wore. I’ve been dressing in them ever since. First some old pairs that Liz no longer wore, then panties of my very own. We bought them online, Liz and I, bikini cuts, microfiber, colorful patterns or pastels. She also sometimes called me a “faggot.” I enjoyed the verbal abuse, just as I enjoyed watching Liz flirt and dance with other men at Abercrombies. Now it seemed we were about to take it to the next step.

“Are you serious about this?” I asked, over the engine’s idle.

“Never been more so,” her reply.

“So next Saturday at Abercrombies…,” my heart racing.

“I’ll proposition one of those guys. Or maybe more.”

“More?”

“Not on the same night. Later in the week. Sunday or Monday or…whenever.”

“So you might be having sex with more than one guy a week.”

Liz looked over at me, wearing that coy smile of hers. “I might be having sex with four or five guys a week. Who knows?”

I creamed my panties. I sat there for a moment in a daze. I wondered how this was going to work. A man from the bar coming over. Fucking Liz in our bedroom while I…I hid myself in the guest bedroom, listening to them have sex. Playing with myself in my little panties, stroking myself.

“Why are we sitting here?” Liz asked sharply.

“Oh. Right.” I put the car in gear and headed out. I would have to go in the bathroom when we got home and clean myself up. A shower would be too obvious. I bala escort felt both elated and mildly dejected.

After a dance, a slow dance, body to body, Liz came back to the high table and told me, “Carl’s coming over at eleven thirty.”

“Carl?”

“The guy I was just dancing with. He’s in. A hundred dollars.”

The realization hit me. “Jesus…”

“Yeah,” Liz smiled, sliding onto her stool, tugging at her short skirt, crossing her thighs. “I’ll get a reputation. Guys’ll be flying over.”

To our house I presumed she meant. What would the neighbors think? Frankly, I didn’t really care.

“Right. Yeah.” My wife the whore. The prostitute. The hooker. Sex for money in an upper middle-class setting. All the comforts of home. MY home.

We left Abercrombies shortly before eleven. It only took a few minutes to get home. Liz waved the back of her hand at me and told me to “skedaddle.” I did–closing myself in the upstairs guest bedroom while she refreshed her makeup. I then listened to her footsteps going down the stairs. About ten minutes later the doorbell rang. My heart raced. Footsteps again on the stairs, rising. Laughter. I heard Carl say, “A hundred?” They were quiet in the bedroom at first, aside from some laughter (about me?). Then the moaning started. The moaning, the groaning, the sex talk. The usual stuff. I kept my ear to the wall and listened. It was all over quickly. Not as quick as me but hardly a world record. I heard the toilet flush and the TV came on. I gathered, about an hour later, that Liz woke her lover, her trick, her john, and informed him it was time to leave.

More footsteps, descending, two pair, muffled voices, and a few minutes later a pick up was backing out of our driveway. Liz knocked on my door. I pulled my panties up and and opened it. A smiling Liz was dangling five twenties. I reached for it but she pulled it away. “Not for you,” she informed me.

“No, I…”

“That was easy,” Liz said. “Fun. Brad’s coming over tomorrow afternoon. Will you be here?”

“Do you want me here?”

Liz shrugged. “I don’t care. Long as you’re out of sight.”

“I’ll see,” I told her.

“You see,” she said rather sarcastically.

“Liz, did he…?”

“Did he what?”

I spit it out: “Wear protection?”

Liz blew air between her painted lips. “What do you think? I’m going in to change the sheets right now.”

“I’ll help,” I eagerly offered. I could visualize it: a big, drying wetspot in the center of our bed. I wanted to bury my face in it.

“Not needed,” Liz informed me. “Go to bed. Go to sleep. See you in the morning.”

I had an intense desire to throw my arms around my naked wife, but she and her five twenties pulled away. “One man at a time,” she etimesgut escort said. “Get some sleep.”

Instead I lay in bed masturbating some more. This time I let it fly. I’d achieved the ultimate cuckold’s goal. My wife not just in bed with another man, but earning money for it. The perfect cuckold arrangement.

And this is how it’s been for the past year or so. Liz entertaining men (and not just from Abercrombies–she was right, word has spread) while I remain mostly hidden in the background. Or gone, period. Things have changed a little, however. Liz now flaunts the payment, the cash, in a baby-blue (or pink) thigh-garter that presses the cash to her thick, unblemished thigh. After they’re done she hands it off to me if I’m home–the hundred, the fifty for a BJ–and I put it in a lock box underneath a 9 mm pistol. Some of these newbies we don’t know and…you can never be too careful.

Liz has expanded her services to include letting a guy spend the night with her. The cost? $250. There aren’t a lot of takers but those who do get treated to a breakfast in the morning (I cook it) before they’re told to leave. If they have the stamina they can fuck Liz as many times as they want, including early Sunday mornings.

After her lover leaves I’m now allowed to change the sheets–and press my face to the sweet wet spot. I change them, the sheets, then throw the soiled ones in the washer. First, however, I run a hot bath for my wife, so she can soak her thick self and her (at times) sore pussy. I toss in some Epsom salts.

Liz is now averaging close to $1,200 a month for her side business. Tax free, of course. She recently bought herself a new Mercedes. She’s making payments, I mean. I helped her pick it out and close the deal. She deserves it.

We still go to Abercrombies on Saturday nights. But the feel is different. The men now come over to proposition Liz. Or be propositioned. It’s more like business arrangements are taking place. The bartender/manager now eyes us suspiciously. Is she harboring a prostitute? Encouraging prostitution? I make sure and tip her royally when she works Saturdays.

Also, I’m not always around anymore. While Liz is entertaining one of her men, her clients, I sometimes head off to a nearby sex shop that has private “viewing” booths at the back. With glory holes. Once inside I undress down to my panties and hope someone joins me in the adjacent booth. Usually, eventually, they do. I’ve established something of a reputation myself.

They stick their cocks through the six-inch diameter hole and I suck them to completion, and swallow. I enjoy doing this. I’m good at it. I love the sweet taste of sperm. Some of the men I suck are regulars. They come back every week for more.

I haven’t hidden this fact from my wife. From Liz. In fact she encourages it. It gets me out of the house while she’s “entertaining,” for one thing. For another, occasionally, a guy I suck will flick a twenty dollar bill through the glory hole. It’s my slim contribution to the greater good.

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